


Together in one constellation

by jonasnightingale



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Angst, Benedict gives no f's about societies rules, Comments are love, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Idiots in Love, Not So Unrequited Love, Pining, Polin, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, artsy friends, being protective and giving all the shit, big brothers doing their thing, eventual jealous colin, evidently I use "idiot" as a term of endearment, i'm usually a one-shot kinda person, idiot colin, just all the tension okay, no beta we die like men, sassy Lady Danbury, these five idiots deserve the world, this might be the longest ffic i've ever written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonasnightingale/pseuds/jonasnightingale
Summary: Half-way around the world and he realises there is more to the home he left behind than blood ties and a big raucous house. A certain red-haired neighbour has snuck into his consciousness and he feels the distance between them like a loose mooring.... followed by snapshots of life on his return because I couldn’t stop. Should probably write a new summary at some point.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington, Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington
Comments: 194
Kudos: 374





	1. Chapter 1

It sneaks in unbidden. In his eagerness for news of her in Eloise’s letters, in the way his eyes dart to every flash of red-hair on his travels. He misses their companionship, her barbed jokes. For so long she had been a part of his life - a spark of barely restrained laughter in the eyes he would meet across the table, a friend to watch the spectacle of balls from the sidelines with - that her absence fills him with a keen sense of yearning. 

The women he meets hold none of her candour, her warmth. He bores of the mundane chatter, the rote conversations. Discourse with Penelope had never been dull; she had always had such a unique outlook on the world. It’s why Eloise and her are such kindred spirits, so fated to be friends. Singular and determined and engaged. As he travels further and further from home he begins to realise that there really is no-one quite like the two of them. The thought fills him with pride and also with fear. In time he realises how lonely it must be. As he skirts the border of pubs and makes unnoticed reference to literary works and wonders how exactly Pen keeps her senses amongst all the frippery.

The thing about Penelope is that they had always had _fun_. The day she inadvertently knocked him off his horse setting the tone for their friendship, the laughter which had always underpinned their interactions, the fond affection. His mother had since insisted one of the brothers dance with Penelope at each ball - a request Colin took on most willingly - and despite the undertone of pity from his family, from the crowd at large, Colin had never felt that to take her hand in his was shameful. He had never been embarrassed by her, never thought once about the glances they received dancing because he was always focused solely on her bright smile, her little observations as they moved. 

And he worries about her without her father, without the protection of a husband or brother. She is tough, he knows, filled with an unflinching resilience, an unexpected strength. She has weathered the worst cruelty of their peers, the degradation of her own family, and yet her kindness refuses to be diminished. And she has Eloise; together they could bring the whole ton to it’s knees if they so desired. Nothing will stand between them, and Colin takes comfort in the fact that his sister will ensure no major plight befalls her. Still he ponders often on her present misfortune, holds back the urge to write ‘ _What news of the Featheringtons?’_ on every letter home.

He finds tales of her on his tongue, anecdotes filled with her wit. When a travel companion remarks that perhaps he should visit the ton, meet this amusing maiden for the purpose of courtship (“the fusing mamas are all the more bearable with a girl giggling on ones arm”), a tight fist forms hard and fast in Colin’s gut. It rears up again, weeks later, when a letter arrives from Benedict, ‘ _I think at times perhaps I best marry Miss Featherington, secure her future away from that frightful mother and save my dignity from the worst matchmaking attempts of our own'_ , but Colin fails to recognise the cause. Though he wakes in bunched sheets in nights following, imagining Benedicts face upon Penelope, Eloise biding himself to call Pen “sister”. The thought fills him with a slow spreading dread, a darkness that fails to fully dissipate as the day progresses. 

He presses flowers from his journey when he knows his words won’t do them justice, imagines the bright smile in her eyes when she sees them. And when he thinks fondly of home she is always there - laughing at him from across the table, sending him a quick glance from Eloise’s side, waving across the street from her stoop. She is not a sister to him, nothing as familial as that, but there has always been an affinity between their souls he has grown to miss in the absence. She is a part of him, a part of the home he longs keenly to return to. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ironically - or maybe inevitably - it all began with Colin.

She had been departing the Bridgerton house when Benedict had intercepted her on the stairs - “Letter from Colin’s just arrived. Care to read?”. A simple offer, a kind gesture. It had snowballed from there; conversations about the worldly text, references to the literature and art Colin’s tales reminded them of, and then Benedict was describing his favourite works and Penelope was telling of the books she simply had to loan him. Hours had passed and they were quite content to sit in that room, smiling at each other from their respective chairs.

It wasn’t a surprise, really, that they had connected so seamlessly. After all, they had much in common. They both wanted _more_ , wanted things more complicated than could be put into words. There was so much they both held within them, so many dreams and desires, messy views on the world, whole universes they dared not speak aloud. It was easy, what they had. He didn’t remark on the similarity of her quips and the barbs found in Whistledown’s printings, she didn’t query his lingering gaze on the form of certain men. Penelope critiqued and praised his work (in equal measure), and he found a new respect for the way she held her comportment at some of the more risqué illustrations. He escorted her and Eloise to art galleries on both sides of town, lost himself in their quick-witted chatter on the carriage rides home.

She didn’t feel self-conscious with him the way she had Colin, didn’t instantly flare with shame or doubt when her tongue ran off of its own accord. And somehow she felt less gaudy in her yellow dresses when he would waltz in, his own brightly coloured ensemble worn with pride. To stand on the edge of the ballroom with him was its own type of agony, but in time she stopped wishing him taller, stopped wishing the facial expressions slightly more subdued and the hands somewhat softer. He offered her dances and she never felt a burden, in fact the gesture was often more to rescue him from incoming Mama’s than to assist her reputation. Catching his half-grin across the room as he made his way over holding two cups of lemonade became a pastime. She took delight in making him laugh, boisterously, unceremoniously, the kind of laughter he wished he could imbue in paint, and he tried to fill her days with the colour and light that continued to seep from her.

Still he saw her struggling to keep her head above water, saw the toll it was all taking on her. Her father’s violent demise, her mother’s cruel outbursts, the coldness of this new patron whose arrival had sent the Featherington house into a spin. Along with Marina’s and Colin’s departures, she had so little left to offer pleasant distraction.

But the Bridgerton’s stepped in, as they are wont to do. Violet invited her for ever more dinners; Benedict and Eloise both kept Penelope more often by their sides than alone it seemed; even Anthony had stepped up, escorting Pen and Eloise to a recent function and making introductions to those few suitors he deemed worth knowing. She slotted so seamlessly into the hole left by Daphne and Colin’s absence. And for her birthday, the two men had arranged for Genevieve to craft her a new dress, a flattering thing in a shade of blue that reminded Benedict of the sky after rain.

She was wearing it, the day Colin came back. Standing to the side of the room, giggling into her glass as Benedict whispered to her how he would paint each member of the party. “Such a long neck, just keeps going, like a giraffe. She’d have to be drawn in portrait. And Lady Andrews, well who would have the patience to draw all those tiny flowers?” She didn’t notice when the younger Bridgerton brother walked in, but his eyes locked straight on them - on Benedict leaning close to Penelope’s ear, on the joyous flush of her cheeks and the stunning frock that made her look more the lady than he’d ever imagined. The chords of the dance faded out and Colin watched as Benedict bowed deeply before offering Pen his hand “A dance, to the only lady here worth painting.”, a caricature of the gentleman he was.

“She was destined to be a Bridgerton, I’ve always thought. Though not the match I had envisioned.” Colin snapped his head abruptly to the small group of women nearby watching the two dance, only to find Lady Danbury’s sharp eyes already pointed his way. There was no way to miss the combination of disappointment and anger in her gaze. He swallowed thickly before giving her a curt nod and crossing the room, edging closer to Pen’s normal spot in the corner.

It was evident the moment she saw him, her laughter cutting out mid ring, her feet stumbling over the steps so that Benedict had to catch her. They fell out of the dance and Benedict turned to follow her gaze. Colin felt his whole body tense at the vista of them in this semi-embrace, her fingers digging into Benedict’s arms, Benedict’s hands gentle on her hips. And the look they exchanged, a moment filled with a whole unspoken conversation, sent an unexpected fire through his veins. Colin remembered the words in that letter from months passed, felt that fist in his gut clench painfully agin. He tries to not take note of Benedict’s leading hand on the small of her back, of the way Anthony is making his way across the room towards them all now.

Now that she’s before him he doesn’t know what to say. This wasn’t how he had envisioned it, the great return. He’d thought he’d show up at her doorstep with the loot of travels, spend hours embedding them in tales as she listened attentively, posing questions that itched to get from her. Or maybe that she would be there in the drawing room with Eloise when he arrived, how she would excitedly exclaim “Colin!” as she jumped from the couch. But this is not that. No, now his most anticipated reunion is being chaperoned by two unusually severe looking siblings. And then she is before him, and Colin can’t help the way his grin cracks his face in half. He has missed her. His fingers twitch in an obscene want to hug her. She looks different, he notes, wiser, more restrained. Her smile catches from his but it only partly reaches her eyes. The blue orbs have too much grief inside them to allow much more.

“Mister Bridgerton! Back from your travels so soon?” He physically flinches at his title on her tongue. “I returned this afternoon Pen. I have much to tell you.” Her eyes soften at his enthusiasm. “I can only imagine the glorious sites you’ve had occasion to witness, the stories you’ll have gathered, Mister Bridgerton.” He doesn’t flinch this time but his brow dips into a deep crease. He notices Benedict and Anthony exchange a glance over Penelope’s head. “May I have a dance, Pen? It’s a tradition…. Is it not?” “No…I am-”  
Anthony jumps in, “I was to escort Penelope and Eloise home. It seems El is starting to scare away the suitors and we best rescue her reputation before she singlehandedly ensures no future advances.” Benedict throws them a loose wave as Anthony places a secure hand on Penelope’s elbow to steer her around. She takes one step and then remembers, spinning around. “Oh I forgot, Bennie, there’s a surprise on your bed.” Benedicts response is to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively and Pen huffs out a short burst of laughter as she turns to leave, bowing to Colin in the process.

Once the departing party are out the doors, Colin rounds quickly on his brother. “What exactly have I missed here?” The look Benedict sends him is sad, sympathetic, and a little bit guarded, “Time, brother, much of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know. Not very happy with it. Tell me your thoughts. Where to next? I wrote this whilst on sleeping tablets so apologies if there's whacked out errors.
> 
> I have also fallen into the Benedict/Penelope and Anthony/Penelope bandwagons of late. Polin is still OTP but I feel like there's much potential with all the siblings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was entirely inspired by a comment on the last chapter. Heavy introspection. Got a lot darker than I intended. Comments make the world go round.

He had always been a dreamer. Always happy to sit and gaze at the world around him - the leaves fluttering down towards the grass, the crunch underfoot of a winters frost, the ladies floating past in their rainbow of colours. He’d seen magic in it all. It was what he had first grown attached to in Penelope; that she saw it too. She looked at the world and saw poetry. When they were side by side in the ballroom, every guest became a character, every mannerism a defining feature. Nothing was too small for them to notice, too insignificant for them to wonder on. They turned the ton into a world far bigger than it was, with heroes and villains, tales of woe, forbidden romances, scandal to be shared with bated breath. The world delighted Pen, lit her up like a torch. A kind word from a stranger, a shop-keeper holding the door for her, a couple laughing on the street corner; Pen looked at it all with bright eyes. He could practically see the prose running through her mind, the words she would compose to capture these subtle moments. 

He loved the loud cacophony on his family, the jesting and the chaos and the constant noise but when he was with Penelope he could re-attune to the miniature. To the sound of the breeze through the bushes, to the quiet huff of laughter pushed between her lips. He noted things differently, felt the thrum of his heart more clearly, thrilled in the warmth of the sun on his face. He looked at her and saw poems yet to be written, and his fingers would itch for ink. 

It had all reminded Colin of her, his travels. Sitting under an unfolding sunset on a beach in Greece, he had felt the same kind of peace, the same kind of inspiration. Like the world was a gentle melody and he could write the next phrase, could shape the narrative.

The ton he left is not that he returned to. He’s heard whispers on the streets, the Featherington name sinking lower and lower, the staunch coldness of its new patron hastening Portia’s desperation to match her daughters, a whisper of impropriety at the time Penelope spends in the Bridgerton house with men, a laughing response at the absurdity of that suggestion. And he tries to fight the trickle of unease at the changes around him, at Benedict sprawled on the lounge with Penelope’s copy of _‘_ Sense and Sensibility’, at the casualty of Anthony pushing the chair beside him out with a vague gesture for Penelope to sit in. And when she meets his eye across the table he’s flattened by the tilt of her chin, the sheen in her eyes. She looks wearied, like the very breaths she takes are littered with coal. Her concrete resolution has always been there, concealed behind an unfailing kindness, an unwavering belief in the beauty of the world, but he used to look at her and see open skies, now he sees roiling oceans. 

He wants to tell her, of the taste of sangria under a clear sky, of music drifting down sweltering streets after dark, of the kindness of strangers who laughed at his butchered attempts to speak their tongue. There is a book in his trunk, of flowers pressed, feathers salvaged, scribblings of inspiration; it was always for her eyes. He wants to tell her how on a corner in Trieste he had watched a baby utter it’s first word, watched as the father spun around in awe, as the mother laughed and clapped. Wants to tell her how he had cried, there on the street, for this future he had lost, this future that had never really been his. And how later he had met a beggar woman, hawking her own poems on the dock, rough script etched onto the back of old maps. How her shoulders had slumped in relief when he handed her a fistful of coins in exchange for the entire pile of pages, how her hands were chalk splattered with ink when she wrapped them around his in thanks. 

But he watches the way Benedict and Anthony track her with their eyes, and he wonders if all that might break her. If the reminder of Marina and the subsequent family ruin would cause her smile to falter, if her heart would shatter at the prospect of this beggar in Italy being able to do what she herself cannot. And he aches at the thought. He feels the keen sting of regret at abandoning the ton just when she most needed a friend. 

“I brought this for you. From Venice.” he says quietly as his hand slips from behind his back to pass her a small red book. She takes it gingerly, running her fingers cautiously over its raised lettering, its spine, before looking back to him. And for a moment she’s there, the girl he’s spent half his life knowing. Her eyes are once more filled with wonder and her voice is but a lofty breath as she says “Thank you. Colin. You did not have to-” “I wanted to, Pen.” She cracks open the book and lets her gaze drift through the pages and he tentatively drops onto the couch beside her. “Perhaps…” he clears his throat before trying again, aware of not only her curious eyes on him but the heavy weight of his brothers'. “Perhaps I might share with you my tales. Sometime.” There is a jolt of _something_ that pierces her expression, before she ducks back to the book, looking at him through her lashes with a soft smile as she replies, “I would like that.” 

He lets out a breathe he did not know he had been holding, lets it out in a relieved huff through his nose as he responds with a half-voiced joyous “Good.” Penelope returns to the book and Colin dares to look at his brothers. At least Anthony has the good graces to pretend at being otherwise occupied, watching them from the corner of his eye. Benedict forces no such act, his head tilted to the side and eyes sparkling with mischief. But there is a soft fondness there that Colin seldom sees, something he now understands could have sparked the rumours. 

He’d always thought himself to be apart from his brothers. To be the romantic. Benedict chased beauty, in any form, consuming it as a way to express his craft. Anthony had always been foolhardy in matters of the heart, rushing into physical entanglements at the sight of any intense emotion. But Colin, Colin hadn’t cared for that. He didn’t want the late nights with the strange women. He wanted the life. His charm and flirtations were not meant to tempt ladies to risk their honour, no, he just liked to see the glint in their eyes, the badge of honour they got to wear at being complimented by a Bridgerton. It was a small kindness perhaps, but he took joy in the light flush of their necks, the chittering gaggle of women that were sure to form in its wake. But then he thinks on the small canvas he had seen tucked under Penelope’s arm last week, the array of her favourite chocolates currently on the buffet, he thinks of Anthony slipping a bunch of daisies into her lady’s maids basket, and that blue dress. Lady Danbury was right, Penelope had been fated to be a part of their family.

He catches her gaze and he smiles - there’s blue skies looking back at him. 


	4. Chapter 4

His eyes catch on them almost instantly. Benedict strolling in like nothing is amiss with Eloise draped across one arm and Penelope holding tightly to his other. Colin feels his eyes go wide, and for a moment thinks this might actually be the stunt that convinces Anthony to kill their brother. He shouts towards them “Brother!” and watches Benedict’s mouth open in a little “ah” before directing the party towards him. Colin fights to close his own gaping mouth as they reach him; “What ever are you doing here?” Benedict responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “We’re taking in a match.”

He finds his eyes drawn to her face, to the awed expression there, to the bright eyes that are taking it all in with wonder. Her leg is pressed firmly against his own and whilst he slips a finger under his collar in an attempt to fight the rising heat she doesn’t seem to have even noticed. Benedict is far too relaxed in his seat, leant back against the wall with legs trailing into the row beneath. As if he does not know that to bring these two ladies here is tempting the wrath of not only Anthony but their mother.

The contestants walk out with their arms held up to high applause, a cacophony of shouts and hollers. Colin’s own clapping stops abruptly when he hears the soft exhale of “Oh!” from Penelopebeside him - a small delighted sound that rings around his head. Her eyes are somehow even wider than before, drinking in Will’s impressive form, hands clasped tightly beneath her chin. Benedict grins at her, unrestrained as his eyes also rake over the man, “Some appeals to boxing after all, Miss Featherington.” Colin feels his gut clench and his face flush as Penelope replies a lofty, “He’s _gorgeous_.” He suddenly wishes Will to lose the match - a frankly absurd prospect with the money Colin had bet on him not fifteen minutes before. Benedict and Penelope hold a quick discussion on the glean of Will's skin, the way its corrugations catch the light, the pull of muscle at his back and Colin bites his tongue, thinks he would gladly lose the gamble just to see the man go down quickly. 

It’s all very different, to be sat here beside Penelope, listening to Eloise’s comments of “Do you men truly not have better things to occupy your time?”. He looks at the room around them and imagines it from Pen’s eyes, tries to recall the sensations of his first time around this ring, the scent of sweat and stale heat lingering heavy on the air, the clamour of cheers and shouts from the crowd around them. She is leant forward in her seat, captivated, for once completely unbothered by the men at her sides. And Colin is lost on the score, too distracted to follow the tally. When his eyes flick to Benedict, he knows he's been caught watching Penelope too long. There’s a smart half-grin on Benedict’s lips but a sharp knowing glint to his eyes. Colin turns quickly to the match, watches the sweat drip down these bare torsos dancing before them, these undressed male bodies caught in Penelope and Eloise’s gaze, and swallows thickly.

* * *

The cold burst of air is a welcome reprieve. Colin is sweltering under his layers, shirt sticking unpleasantly to his skin. His heart is hammering uncomfortably against his ribs and breathing shallow. He can still feel the ghost of Penelope’s thigh tight against his own, can still smell a hint of her perfume in his nose. The money won is a solid weight in his pocket but none of the usual satisfaction is there. Running a hand roughly through his hair Colin reasons he must be coming down with something, and paints a charming smile onto his face before turning to greet the party. Eloise and Penelope are huddled together, heads tucked in close and talking in rushed whispers. Penelope’s cheeks are high in a smile and Eloise’s laughter is loud as it breaks out of their bubble. They’re something to behold, these two friends. Benedict loops an arm around him and they stand in watch as the exiting crowd divert effortlessly around them, as if Penelope and Eloise control the tides of men. 


	5. Chapter 5

The steady drumming of the rain echoes through the room. London’s been a bluster of storms all weekend and on better days he might consider the overflowing gutters and muddied gardens a cleanse, but there is a winters darkness between Penelope’s eyes that halts his optimism. In true Bridgerton fashion, they’ve spent the bulk of this dreary day on top of each other in the drawing room. Between card games and sketching, he’s watched Penelope from the corner of his eye. Anthony has noted it too, the returned sadness in her gaze, the uncertain line of her smile; the two men have been trading covert glances all day, taking turns at bucking her up with pranks on their sister and elaborate tales. Benedict’s not able to decipher Colin’s expression, not sure if the younger brother has read her melancholy, but he’s grateful for the way Colin can spin words that distract her, even if for only a moment. As the day wears on they’ve settled into their amusements.

Eloise storms from the room behind Anthony, her voice reaching up through the floors as he continues to tease about suitors. For the first time since she scurried through the door this morning, drenched from even the short dash between their houses, they’re alone. Benedict turns away from his easel to look at Penelope where she is sat tucked into the corner of the settee, tendrils of flame framing her pale face. His voice is soft but earnest when he tells her “I would have your hand Pen, if it would spare you that home’s cruelties.” Her head jolts up to look at him, eyes wide in shock. There is a strain, a resignation, almost weariness to the way she says his name; part warning, part plea - “Benedict…”  
“We would have a friendship, and could each maintain our freedoms. Marriages are forged on much less.” 

She is so used to looking at him and seeing mirth, barely restrained laughter dancing behind his eyes, but when she meets his gaze now there is just a quiet affection. For a moment she wishes it could be that easy; that she could say yes and they could build a life together and the heartache and uncertainty would be over. He would be a great companion, would open her world up to all the eccentricities London had to offer, would champion and support and adore her. And she would be able to still write, to maintain her friendship with Eloise… Penelope lets her gaze linger on him in a way she never does, drinks him in and imagines the man, the artist he will become in time. Whatever his talk of freedoms, she knows that to shackle him to matrimony would only limit his inspirations. It is a sacrifice she cannot ask of him. She sets aside her book and shuffles to the cushion’s edge, leaning towards him. 

Her words are impassioned, honey dripping from her tongue and the blazing conviction of them makes Benedict’s breath catch in his chest. “You will make a spectacular husband Benedict. But there is not a doubt in my mind that you are fated to a grand love. The kind of love that turns men to poets and makes believers of cynics, that paints the world in colour. She will certain be something to behold and you, Benedict Bridgerton, are going to have a love that burns hot and bright and all encompassing. And I would not dare impede her when it comes.” There is so much in the way he looks at her, in the pull of his lips to the side, the tilt of his head. His eyes squeeze tightly closed and dart open when she speaks again, “Besides, I do not think I could bear the deceit to your family.” Benedict sighs, gaze flickering across her face before settling on the window behind, on the steady rivers running down it.  
“I suppose to call Colin ‘brother’ would after all be too much to ask of you.” It slips out without intention, the simple fact of her attentions a secret they have never before voiced. She wants to laugh it off, deny it with a giggle and an easy lie, but Benedict _knows_ her, they know each other. And so she simply responds with a sigh, “I suppose it would.”

She thinks that if her Mother were to ever discover Penelope had been proposed to by the second Bridgerton son, Portia would collapse right on the spot. And to imagine what would happen if anyone were to know she had said no…

Benedict gives a sad nod and leans closer still, fighting the urge to reach out for her hand. “But still, Pen, know the offer stands should you ever need it.” There are tears pricking at her eyes and a sad half-smile flits across his lips before he switches tracks, shaking the weighted moment off them with a wink and a dramatic spin back to his art. “Well if you won’t marry me then at least pray tell what you think of my work.” A laugh bubbles out of her in a start. 

* * * 

Colin is frozen against the door frame. He had been coming down for something, for cookies, freshly baked, on the table, the ones Cook makes only when Penelope is over, his favourites. Now his stomach is in knots, his head spinning, ears straining to catch the soft words exchanged between Benedict and Penelope. He feels weird, disconnected from the world in a way, like he is no longer tethered to his flesh, like his form is no longer held by gravity to the earth. “ _Well if you won’t marry me…_ ” pulls him back, a flood of anger and confusion and despair crashing down on him. His breath is caught in his throat, shoulders hunched high and tight and brow pinched tightly. He finds his hands are curled into strained fists beside him, every muscle in his body pulled taught. 

Their voices are harder to distinguish, now he guesses Penelope has walked over to the easel. But the laughter is hard to miss, the soft murmurs and jesting “ _You wound me Miss Featherington!_ ” that carry to his ears. He wants to find the whole thing laughable, that his brother - the second son of this great house - would marry Penelope Featherington, the youngest of a foolish brethren. But laughter is the furthest thing from his mind. He’s shocked to find he understands. And God, he can imagine it. Imagine Penelope reading to a bassinet as Benedict watches smiling from the doorway, imagine the pair throwing around a rambunctious toddler with a lopsided grin and glowing eyes, imagine Benedict catching her beauty in paint as she flushes pink. 

He’s spent weeks adjusting to the new dynamics that formed in his absence, to the way both Benedict and Anthony have bonded so tightly with his favourite neighbour. The quirk of Anthony’s lip when he’s fighting a smile at Pen’s veiled barbs, the casual intimacy of Benedict’s hand brushing against her elbow, the glances his two brothers exchange on days when her smile falters. He’s got used to Eloise’s cranky retorts of “Brother, she is _my_ friend.” being levelled at any one of them, become accustomed to finding her books around the house and not knowing to whom they had been leant. But this? To consider that she might actually become a Bridgerton, that he would stand behind them at the alter, toast to a fruitful marriage…To have her so close and yet so far. 

“Are you lost?” Anthony’s voice breaks through his revery and Colin looks up to find his elder brother looking at him with mirth. The humour on his face quickly drops to a weary concern at Colin’s severe expression. Whilst Anthony himself is aware of the fine lines forming between his eyes, the testament to years spent with a spectre of responsibility cast upon him, to see the look on Colin’s face gives him pause. Colin opens his mouth to respond but finds no words, shooting Anthony one unreadable look before turning for the stairs. The older brother watches him go, brow furrowed.

Colin closes the door tightly and rests his head heavily against it, forcing out an uneven breath. He’s consumed by the ire, the twang of something like a live wire coursing through him. A passion he doesn’t know what to do with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are the highlight of my week - thank you to everyone that takes the time, it means the world.
> 
> ALSO I have the next chapter in mind and think I might get just a little smutty... people down for that?


	6. Chapter 6

He pushes out a shaky breath, forces the fingers still tight in a fist to stretch against the cold wood of the door. _Calm down Colin._ His eyes are closed and he tries to fight back the visions that swim through his mind, a combination of memories and imaginings. The fire burns him from within, a white hot whirlwind of emotion that he is entirely lost to. He pushes away from the door and forces his legs to take long steps into the room. For the first time he understands Anthony, his brother’s physical reactions to the world around him. He understands the brawls and the trysts. Because he wants to throw a punch, put his whole useless body into something and leave exhausted. He wants to feel drained and sore and done with this thrum of electricity that’s running through his veins. He wants to push. God he wants to drag his teeth along Penelope’s collarbone and feel her breath of his name against his ear. His head jolts upright at that thought and even as he mentally swats it away a spark of want rears through him. Colin groans, dropping to the bed as heavy as a stone. The visions keep coming, and he pushes his palms tight against his eyes in protest. 

For what may be the first time ever, Colin skips dinner. He stays sequestered in his room, frustrated and confused and bewildered. The anger has a name, he has realised - he feels possessive, he feels _betrayed_. But that serves to only confuse him more, for he is not the type to besmirch another their happiness. And he especially is not the kind to draw such detestable emotions at the future happiness of a most beloved brother, at that of a most beloved friend. He flops listless back against the bed, charts the shadows stretching across the walls and tries to turn this inner tide. He tries to focus on Benedict’s laugh, the way it bursts out of him and fills a room. Tries to focus on the smile Penelope reveals before ducking her head to conceal the merriment. Tries to marry these two expressions together and find the enthusiasm he should hold for such a match. 

Were he not a part of this narrative it would be a tale so easy to spin - the artist and the writer, the ones that never quite fit in, a lifetime spent thrown together by circumstance, spent catching glances across roads and ballrooms, spent in the same few rooms entirely by accident. And for there to then be love. For there to be heirs that would stitch their histories together, trade in the Featherington colours for the Bridgerton blue. For Penelope and Eloise to be sisters as surely by law as they are by mind. Were he anyone else, he could say maybe it was fated. 

His dreams are fits and starts, echoes of “ _Benedict_ ” so familiar on Penelope’s tongue that he twists away from the sound. Such a simple thing, a name said aloud. Colin fights to recall her lips around his own name, compares the sounds until all the vowels slip together and it’s just noise. He wants to hear it, aches for the nuance it could reveal, imagines it breathy and flustered and too close to his face. And the flames engulf him again, the fervour demanding to be felt. 

He wakes in a mess of linens, sweat heavy on his skin and heart pounding. He’s shaking, whole body a mess of live-wires begging to be tripped. And there’s her name on the tip of his tongue, her face he’s chasing as the day tears him from dreams. 

Yesterday’s emotions still sit heavy in his gut, but they’ve softened, unravelled into something much more dangerous. The anger is replaced by shame, the despair by heartache. They each stretch prickling tendrils throughout his body as he sits at the breakfast table picking slowly at a single scone and ignoring the silent conversation of looks his siblings exchange around him. Benedict sneaks a handkerchief filled with yesterday’s cookies against Colin’s plate and throws him a smile that is both bolstering and perturbed, and Colin manages a small grin back. This is his brother, the very one who always told him that London was small and the world was wide, the boy who partook in all the kitchen heists and the man who never once faltered as a kind ear. Colin wants only happiness for him, whatever that may look like, whatever that may mean, Colin wants Benedict to find a lifetime of content. 

But there’s this small part of him that suddenly pictures red hair and whispers cruelly, “ _Do you really?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this shit? I honestly cannot decide. Split the planned chapter into two because felt bad for the lack of updates. Veered away from too smutty because I'm just totally paranoid. *groans* I just don't know right now.


	7. Chapter 7

The band moves onto the waltz and Colin makes sure to dodge behind a column as Lady Cowper swans past. Penelope Featherington may be overlooked by the majority of their peers but she is not usually this hard to find in a room. The colour of her hair and attire is typically an easy enough beacon to locate. But not tonight. He knows she is here, had watched over Miss Cowper’s shoulder on the dance floor as Pen rubbed fingers against her temple and surveyed the party. 

Both Eloise and their Mother are absent from tonight’s gathering and the brothers are making the most of a night away from Violet’s match-making and schemes. Anthony is in the office, lounged deep in a chair with a cigar in one hand and a glass in the other. Benedict is on the balcony with Mr Granville, shoulders bumping, deep in conversation. Colin knows this, because he has walked the length of this floor twice in search of Penelope.

He’s recently realised that he is always seeking her out, that _they_ are always seeking her out. He can think of only one instance in all their years were she has moved first - that afternoon in the hallway, her hand in his as he dismissed her confessions. 

It’s been over a week since he dreamt her phantom weight upon him and near as long since he has actually been in her presence. With half the house ill, Penelope’s visits have been sparse. But Colin is feeling more himself with the absence and is determined to make recompense for their awkward interaction last they spoke. Well, spoke doesn’t quite cover it. For in trying to speak he had instead choked on the large bite of sandwich taken moments before spotting her. Spluttering and red-faced and being slapped brutally across the back by Anthony was not exactly the casual conversation he hoped for each time they found proximity.

A short gasp catches his attention and he turns to follow it into the library. There she is, garish yellow dress glowing in the moonlight. She paces along the shelves, hands pressed against her ribs and bosom rising and falling in frantic breaths. Colin steps into the room without thought, her name on his tongue both happy and confused. “Pen. Is the party truly so odious you’ve sought retreat so soon?” She stops pacing and turns to him with anxious eyes. A sharp jolt races up his spine when her lips part around “Colin!”, for her breath is every bit the tortured sound that had haunted his recent nights. Her chest is heaving against the trappings of her dress and his throat tightens at the sound of her shallow pants filling the space between them.

The other abnormalities register - the pallor of her skin, the sweat accumulated along her hairline - and Colin moves towards her on instinct. “Are you quite well, Pen?” She aims for a smile but it comes out more a grimace than anything else as she answers, “Oh yes. I just needed… some air.” The desperate grab for breath between her words is not lost on him and his brow sets into a deep furrow. “Just a touch… light-headed.” She sways slightly on her feet and as he lunges to steady her she grabs a nearby chair for support. Her fingers are wrapped tight around its edges, a pained exclamation bursting from her unbidden. 

His eyes rake over her searching for injury. “What has happened? Are you hurt? How can I-” Her response continues to be punctuated by raspy gasps but her eyes are less focussed, her words filled with unusual candour.  
“No cause for concern. Mother was but too strong on the laces this evening. It seems my lungs protest at the mere… the mere prospect of an orange and a half.” The words confuse him, but the sway of her body is becoming increasingly wider and he responds with panicked bewilderment.  
“Laces?”  
“My corset. I simply cannot quite reach the air.”  
“Shall I fetch…” Of course this had to happen tonight, of all nights, when neither Eloise or his mother were able to be called on. “Your Mother? Or perhaps Daphne?” Penelope shakes her head briskly, eyes tightly closed and hand risen to her neck.  
“I fear I might -” He doesn’t hear the end of her rushed exhale, distracted by a familiar shadow cutting across the door frame.  
“Simon!”

* * *

He closes the door on them, sure of Simon’s discretion. It should make scarcely a difference, he knows, but his mind makes the unfortunate connection between this moment and one that took place in this very house a year prior, when he had blurted out a proposal to a woman he barely knew. This is no act to force his hand and Penelope is not Marina, but his chest constricts uncomfortably at the similarity. 

An agonised whimper spills from her and Colin gathers his nerve. He is behind her in but a few quick strides, his voice quieter than intended, nerves punctuating the tone. “I might need your instruction here.” The coiffed head of flaming tendrils turns towards him before Penelope’s whole form pitches suddenly sideways. His voice is stressed as he rushes to elaborate, “The laces, Pen. How do I-?”  
The word is a squeak; “Buttons.”

Colin reaches for the first button with already shaking hands. His heart is thrashing relentlessly within his chest and as his fingers work at the little bundles of yellow thread he tries valiantly to not notice the smooth silk of her collar, the weight of her diaphragms straining against his palms. She chokes his name, a desperate plea. And he knows it is not about him, is solely prompted by the need for air in her lungs, but it thrums through him nonetheless, finding purchase in his gut and taking root. His eyes dip heavily closed for just a moment as the sound shudders through him. 

His fingers slide into the laces, picking them apart in a messy haste. He works his way up and down the ribbons until she manages to take a full breath. It pulls harshly against her throat but the exhale is a relieved rush of air. Colin’s fingers still against her back as she gulps in the oxygen, as she drops her hands against the table and takes deep heaving breaths with head drooped forward. The fabric of his garments feel hot against his skin, her body so close his nose is filled with her perfume. Once her breathing has evened and her lungs returned to their regular function, Colin slips his fingers back into the laces, “Better?” The rough timbre of his tone surprises them both and he feels the shudder that runs up Penelope’s spine against his fingers. She merely nods, lip caught tightly between teeth. 

Now the panic and desperation has subsided, a new weight presses down on them. The act of his fingers plucking her corset laces to once more secure them so intimate. It’s more than enough to ruin them both. Without the pressing fear of Penelope collapsing before him, Colin is all the more aware of exactly how close they are; of his breath sending the small tendrils of hair against her neck flying, of her breath catching quietly in her throat for entirely different reasons. His fingers glide a whisper of a caress along the top of her corset, where the deep bruises and angry red marks are all too visible. Penelope slips out a lofty “oh” at the sensation of his fingers against her flesh and he fights the urge to press a gentle kiss against her tortured skin, finds himself unconsciously leaning downward before his brain catches up. He ties the laces quickly and starts back on the buttons. 

This time he doesn’t rush. His fingers - still shaking - take their time working up her spine. He commits it all to memory; the quiet sounds, the unconscious tremors. Colin is certain his face is blazing a deep red. His throat is heavy and body uncomfortable within the strict confines of linen. He takes note of the smattering of freckles along Penelope’s neck, the soft curve of her shoulders. His fingers stumble on the last button, finally slipping it into place and something like regret curls inside him. His heartbeat is a booming thud in his ears as his hands linger above the close; he can’t bring himself to step away. 

Penelope spins her head in small bursts to ascertain if he’s finished and when she turns their faces are but inches apart - he can see the galaxy of freckles spanning her complexion, the specks throughout her blue eyes. He takes her in, gaze flicking across her features in earnest. He utters her name, a million emotions rolled into one syllable, gravel in his tone. “Pen…” and she meets his gaze. Her pupils are wide and cheeks pink with returning circulation and he sways closer toward her as if pulled by some innate magnetic charge. If he took but one step she would be against him, table behind her bumping their legs. His gut somersaults again; urgent and trembling and sublime. Some part of Colin that is still processing thought considers how he must appear; ears bright red, breath an inconsistent string of sharp inhales and juddering exhales, breeches straining tight against him. 

She takes another lungful of air from the gap between them and does what he cannot. She steps to the side and away, ducking from the space between him and the desk. He takes satisfaction from the jitter of her voice as she avoids his gaze and tells him, “You truly are a gentleman, and and a most generous friend. I owe you a a great debt.” Colin’s mouth drops open to respond but no words find their way, she shoots him a quick smile before sliding out the door. Colin leans against the table and lets out a groan, muscles throbbing for a release he refuses to give them. 

The door opens and for one dastardly moment he has hope, but Simon’s face meets his gaze instead. Colin can tell how destroyed he looks from the reaction of his brother-in-law, from the way Simon’s mouth closes on whatever he was to say, lips pursing as he fights a grin, from the way his arms cross in amusement and the casual lean against the doorframe. After an expanse of silent heavy moments in which Colin runs a still vibrating hand through his hair and tries to look more composed, Simon gives a quick nod and moves his hand back to the door. “I shall, uh, let you… cool down.” He moves to leave but Colin calls him name.  
“Simon.” His voice is threadbare, frayed, a coarse growl he doesn't recognise. Simon barely fights the smirk this time. “There can be no question-“  
Sincerity paints back across the mans face and Simon nods swiftly, “There won’t be. No one will know.” 

* * *

And they don’t. 

Colin all but snatches Lady Whistledown from Fran to anxiously rake through her words - there’s no hint of impropriety. If anything Whistledown has given alibi for the “sad lemon curd, left with not a single dance invitation in the absence of the Bridgerton women throwing scraps and twisting the brothers ears”. Colin flares with outrage, but reading over his shoulder Benedict only frowns and throws a glance to the house across the road. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shrugs*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the brotherly chapter I promised but it just demanded to be writ and I was helpless to say no (to me, because I really wanted this scene). Brothers being brothers coming next time. Sorry!

Benedict makes his way towards her picking at a strawberry tart. A flake of pastry falls to the floor and his head follows it betrayed before catching her eye and giving a cheeky shrug. The past weeks have felt unusually heavy; between the dreary weather, Eloise’s health keeping the Bridgerton doors closed, and that night with Colin weighing heavily on her mind, Penelope is near flattened. She misses her father’s quiet presence, the way he could simply sit in the room with his paper and Penelope would feel less abhorrent. But Benedict makes his way to her side and the sight of his stupid grin is alone enough to lift her spirits. 

“I would have preferred a lemon tart but trust the Garrick’s to only have plain strawberry.” Penelope shoots a quick look at him, eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t turn to meet her gaze. “Lemon curd is by far the superior dessert - sweet and tart in equal measure. As all good things are.” At this he swivels to throw her a glance, mischief sparkling in his eyes. He turns back to the party around them, “Sure a lemon tart may present to some right fools as less adorned in trappings, but simply for it does not demand the garnish, has no need for being overtrimmed. Lemon curd is - put plainly - everything you could ever want from a spread. It is not to be passed over.” He turns to her with a barely restrained grin and shoves the remainder of the tart into his mouth, trying (and failing) to hide his mirth with the act of chewing. Penelope’s head is tilted in a quiet judgement, cheeks pushed high in a smile even as she gives a small roll of her eyes. Mouth still half-full, Benedict tacks on, “I must confess their chocolate mousse is quite divine.” and Penelope raises a hand to conceal the laughter which tumbles from her. 

Colin watches across the room as Benedict draws an easy cheer to Penelope’s expression. She is in a pink gown tonight, but he knows the change in colour has done nothing to quell the whispers. There remain constant glances towards the pair, the chittering of the crowd grating on Colin’s already fraught nerves. He wants to join them, prove Whistledown and all her nattering readers wrong, but to do so would surely just add fuel to the fire - the Bridgerton’s doubling down, Violet watching on with anxious eyes. Eloise has dissuaded suitor after suitor tonight, pinning them under her anger with glaring eyes and sharp “Do you know my friend Miss Penelope Featherington? And what say you of her outfits?”, and Anthony has for once let her. 

Benedict is incrementally closer to her ear than normal, tone unchanged but voice quieter, “I hope you do not believe, Lady Whistledown, that our attentions have been insincere.” And there’s something in the way he says it, eyes so clearly meeting hers, the pointed half-beat before the name. Oh the weight of a breath, the implications of one tiny dash in text. A sentence easily concealed to listening ears, ‘ _I hope you do not believe Lady Whistledown’,_ but she knows the cadence of his words, could so easily hear the same sentiment with ‘ _Pen’_ substituted mid-way. She feels her expression freeze, tries to mentally tally all the words she has writ that could cause him grievance whilst Benedict leans back and continues talking, as if he had not just so casually admitted to knowing the ton’s largest secret, as if he had not learned her a fraud. “Admittedly you are a favourite of our Mother’s, but we are heedless children and so rarely engage her fancies. No, the evenings in which my brothers’ encumbered on you their poor dancing were of entirely their own design.” She almost manages the joke, _‘And what of your poor dancing?’_ but she is still inert, tracing the lines of his face for hints at anger or disappointment as he, despite everything, attempts to dissuade her of her own assertions. “Trust, Penelope, that of all the things between us, pity is not in the fray. Nothing has been born from misplaced duty.”

* * *

Colin has spent the night managing small talk and eating canapés, trying to ignore the ache in his chest that is as if his ribs are slowly crushing inwards. Lady Danforth has proved an excellent companion, engaging in surprisingly spritely discussion and politely ignoring the frequent waver of his gaze. She has made but two remarks about the latest jab in societies paper, one that scrapes uncomfortably against Colin’s aching chest - “It is a trite jibe that has been often repeated and as frequently dismissed. Trust Miss Featherington knows when she is being managed, she would not abide it.” - and one that he tries to not linger on - “I waited years to be called a dessert.”

But the band is tempering down and the buffet is a mess of empty wine glasses. The crowd has thinned and through it he sees a flash of amber ringlets move towards the door. He is lost to his impulses, long legs following her before his mind has caught up. The hours have weighed heavy on him, maintaining a distance he yearns to close, clinging tight to a composure he does not feel. When he catches her on the stairs he is breathless, coming to an unsteady halt at their start. “Pen.” She turns to meet his gaze as Benedict and Eloise climb into the carriage behind her. There is so much he wishes to say, to hear. He needs her to know she is no burden he has been forced to wear all these years, wants to tell her how he has longed for her humour these long weeks past, wonders if her hands tremble as his do on thoughts of last weeks ball. But a small breeze whips past them and sends light locks of her hair dancing in the air around, and he is mute. They stand, gazing at the other for longer than is proper. There are a handful of steps between them and the distance is wide enough, but in that moment Colin feels as though she were right before him. The night is quiet around them and for once she does not glance away. 

“Colin, for the love of… are you to join the carriage or no?” Eloise is half-leaning out the carriage yelling at him with a staunchly raised brow and impatient glare. He takes a small step back, forces his pursed face to slip into something much more casual as he declines, watches Penelope turn once more and Benedict’s hand helping her into the seat. She looks back at him, as the carriage pulls away, and Colin feels his gut twist anew.


	9. Chapter 9

“I beg of you, do not wed Miss Featherington.”

Benedict turns towards Colin with an amused quirk to his lips and one brow raised. He is sunk into the swing with a lit cigarette between his lips. Colin stands to the side and watches as Benedict exhales a long string of smoke. “Well hello to you too, brother.” Colin blinks to conceal his eye roll and moves into the swing beside him.   
“I overheard the other afternoon. Your conversation in the drawing room. Your proposal.”  
“I suppose you thus also _overheard_ her rejection of such advances.” A thought crosses Benedict and he snaps into a commanding posture, his voice suddenly hard and urgent, “You must not breathe word of this to a soul Colin. I will not have her name further besmirched nor honour questioned by the vapid gossip of the ton.” Colin simply gives his brother a hard look and reaches for the cigarette frozen half-way to his lips, plucking it away to suck a heavy inhale.   
“Before she was your friend she was mine. Trust I am all too aware how precarious her situation is.” Benedict relaxes back into his perch, a glimmer of something sharp still in his tone.  
“And yet you come to beg me leave her destitute?” Colin takes another puff of the cigarette and passes it back, exhaling a burdened sigh and shifting his gaze onto the dark sky above them. The silence blankets them, nothing but the squeak of the swings and the rustle of the garden intruding on the moment.

Colin keeps his gaze sky-bound as he releases the words with reticence. The nights ache is still wrapped around his chest, an agony that strikes deep within. “I cannot fathom home without Pen’s being a part of its fabric, and I wish so sincerely to be less vexed by such a union that would allow her stay. But I cannot shake this feeling. I have tried and I cannot will myself to feel happiness at its prospect.” Colin looks to his brother. “Benedict I do not think I could stand in the church beside you were she your betrothed.” The last part comes out more of a whisper to himself, a quiet revelation directed to the ground, “I do not think I could bear it.” Benedict watches his brother, traces the slump of his shoulders, the pained expression pulling between his eyes. He passes over the cigarette and leans back on the swing. When he does reply his tone is soft, words measured.

“It would secure her future, and satiate our mother. True enough that we do not share a love connection, but there is a fondness between us, and I can certainly think of worse matches to face the future with. Brother, I do not love her. But I fear sometimes the fate that awaits in the years to come if no suitors step forward. She would make a fine companion, and our sisters would be thrilled for her to share their name.” Benedict’s gaze remains trained on his brother, on the tight squeeze of his eyes and near imperceptible nods. “ _However_ , if a gentlemen were to present himself who did hold sacred a chamber of his heart for Penelope, then he would have my hearty blessing. If such a man were to claim her, I would be in full support.” The silence descends again and Benedict wonders if Colin has finally worked it out, after all these years dared give a name to what has always been between them. 

“Do you remember Mother and Father -” Benedict begins, the prompt change in topic causing Colin to look up from the grass, “the silent discussions they would have over our heads with just a quick look and the tiniest muscle twitch? How they used to laugh? Father wheezing at the breakfast table, almost doubled over face first into his porridge at Mother's jests, hand banging the table relentlessly.” Both brothers smile and Colin sees the scene so clearly before him, feels the wash of those days warm him.   
“I recall a particular Sunday where Papa snorted aloud before the King…” Colin chuckles and Benedict howls with laughter at the memory.   
“Little brother you were so frightened of the glare sent Father’s way you did not dare towards the snack table!” The smile on Colin’s lips catches, drips into a weight that hangs heavy on his heart. Colin’s eyes trace the corners of their home as Benedict watches him cautiously. When Colin responds his tone is worn, exhaustion seeded in every word.  
“Does it not terrify you?” Benedict’s head tilts sidewards and his lips part to ask, but Colin dashes a quick look at him and continues unprompted. The unchecked vulnerability, unusual sadness there making Benedict’s throat close over. “The prospect of bearing such a loss?”

_Oh._ And suddenly it makes sense in a new way. Benedict looks at his charming, munificent little brother and really sees him; sees the cracks, the anxieties, the sadness. Despite all appearance to the contrary, Marina had been a safe choice. There was less that could be lost. The siblings each wore the grief of their father in different ways, sometimes it was hard to trace their scars. The absence changed them all, forced their hands, as did the year that had followed in its wake, when their mother could scarcely drag herself beyond the door of their house, when all the music and joviality was sucked so suddenly from their once joyous home. But there had been siblings still to raise, so the boys had tried to shoulder their grief whilst stepping into their fathers shoes, burping the babies and reading stories to the girls at bedtime and pretending to not hear their mothers sobs through the walls.

The answer was simple and plain and something Benedict had spent his life trying to not think on, it comes out of him without effort. “Yes.” Their gazes meet and there is a silent recognition, they are the same in so many ways. “But Colin, these things cannot be outrun. No matter the choice, life… _death_ … will flow its course and we will face loss. It was so clear cut, with Father - there was a before and after, these obvious bookends that allowed us carve out clear distinctions. It is not always this way, on occasion it may take time to recognise.” Colin doesn’t respond, turns his gaze to the soft features of his brother, the better version of himself. He wonders what it is that Benedict has lost in pieces, when exactly, and how he had failed to note a brother in pain. When Benedict goes on, Colin observes the manner in which he weighs each word on his tongue, the reluctance with which they escape his teeth.

“You were less yourself than I have ever seen when beside Marina. Not once did I see you tickled by her words. You became staid, and all those big notions that have long been a part of you - your flights of fancies and your quiet daydreaming - they seemed no longer yours. I cannot help but recall Mother’s disappointment, and Anthony’s, that you would not seek first their advice, that you would not keep our family a part of this new chapter in your life.” Benedict catches himself, makes the effort to soften his tone, “You would have undoubtedly made a fine husband, brother, Marina would be a most lucky bride. But in marrying her you would have lost much, things that are not so simple to replace.” 

He has thought on it often in recent times, trying to compare the two sets of emotions. Trying to use the mess of temptations and hopes and disappointments from that dalliance as a scaffold for interpreting whatever it is he’s feeling around Penelope. The wound does not smart so much these days, though the shame prickles still. Not from the whispers of the ton, nor even the aghast responses his tale would receive when drunkenly blithered across a bar table in Europe. But from the memories of their faces - Anthony and Benedict and Mother and Penelope, and even against all expectation Daphne and Eloise.

“I regret that I handled things poorly with our family, and did not heed the warnings of my most trusted friends. But I will not apologise for love Benedict. If that is what you are asking from me-“  
“It’s not.” Benedict turns more staunchly towards him, eyes filled with swirls of emotion and intellect that are typically concealed before more lighthearted affectations. “I want only for you to realise that there is _time,_ Colin, and there is space - whether in love or simply a marriage - for all of it; the laughter and the ambition and the big family dinners and being your entire self unabashedly. I would not ask you beg pardon for any emotion. But Colin, a lifetime is very long, even if it is too short.”

Colin is grateful for Benedict, for his even temper, the softness around his eyes even as he berates and lectures, his understanding that overrides even the most core disappointment. Colin goes to tell him as much as he grinds the butt of their cigarette beneath his shoe but the words come out entirely different. “I could not endure it again.” His eyes go wide at the unwitting confession, not sure himself what exactly it is he refers to. The long moment before a proposal is accepted? The hot spike of mortification reading Lady Whistledown’s revelation? The new hesitance in his step towards Pen? The anger shining in Anthony’s eyes? The loss of a future? 

“So many moments make up a life, Colin, and we can lose those we love just as easily if we do not dare. It must be better, I think, to risk that pain for the lifetime of comfort - long or short as it may be - that proceed it.”   
“And what if we are wrong?”  
Benedict’s smile twists, something aching and raw on show. “Then we are to better understand the poems and paintings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Insert Snape dance from AVPM*
> 
> Soooooo.... thoughts? Not to be a needy bitch but y'all had so little to say from the last chapter and I'm lowkey nervous as hell about it.
> 
> Reference: https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/team-starkid/images/0/0e/SeverusSnape.gif/revision/latest?cb=20180723165008


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay look I lied and I'm sorry - this was all going to be one chapter but it got too long so I'm splitting it. But in my defence, the chapter of actual resolution is less than an hour away! I just needed my brotherly advice scene. 
> 
> Also, sincerely, thank you all for the kind words in response to me being a needy bitch, it's been a real tough time and all your lovely words made it that much better. <3

“I fear I need your advice.”  
“Fear? I will have you know that my advice is _faultless_. I am a truly gifted advice giver and it is just a shame that you have not realised this earlier. I could have spared you many a right embarrassment.”  
Colin motions awkwardly towards the chair, “So may I…?”  
Anthony moves in two quick steps to his own seat, plopping down firmly and clasping his hands on the table before him, whole body leaning forward, entirely engaged. The humour melts away as he gives a firm nod and responds sincerely, “Always, brother.”

Colin is unsure in his seat, fingers twisted together and words unable to begin. But Anthony waits. 

“It seems that of seven siblings, you are the only one to have experienced…” Colin swallows deeply and manages to meet his brothers gaze. “…love”. Anthony leans back slightly, and Colin is reminded of his expression that night, the pieces of himself offered as apology. “I have of late found myself preoccupied often by a lady. Yet I am no longer assured of my own affections for I have past believed myself in love only to be proved little more than a fool. How can one be sure… to aptly categorise such an emotion?”  
Colin watches as Anthony makes the choice to put aside all curiosity, as he wipes the hint of mystery from his face and leans into being the problem-solver.   
“Do you know this lady? Sincerely.”  
“Like the back of my hand or the feel of sunshine on my face.”  
Anthony feels the need to clarify, “You have known her for longer than a month?”  
“Much.” There’s a small smile around Colin’s mouth and it makes Anthony’s expression raise to match. He thinks a moment, fingers tapping together in concentration.

“I want you to recall the worst day you have shared.” Colin considers, remembering her so desperately talking about tomatoes in Greece, or unbearably determined in that hallway, ‘ _Mister Bridgerton_ ’ levelled at him that first ball upon his return. But then his mind flips to their goodbye, to the sinking feeling that pushed his heart to his feet, the memory of her bright enlivened eyes so swiftly becoming glassy and dim, ‘ _No, I’m all danced out I’m afraid_ ’. He nods at Anthony, swallowing around the ache in his chest. Anthony leans forward, looks him firmly in the face. “If that day were to be your future - every day just like that one, stretching on for however long we have - would you want it?”

Colin’s face constricts at the absurdity of the suggestion. But he had been the one to seek his brothers advice, so he huffs out a sigh and tries to truly ponder it. That tug of disappointment had followed him around the world and back, a phantom wound that revealed itself in unexpected moments. To watch her turn away, to wonder if that would be their last moment. But the moments prior, her understanding, her vibrancy, her unchecked candour. He would take that moment forever. Meeting her gaze across the room and knowing that despite all that had transpired between them, he could still walk to her side, she would still look at him kindly. 

Anthony is transfixed by the emotion so legible on Colin’s face, the internal debate being waged. He knows the instant a side has won - Colin’s expression stills and he blinks thrice in quick succession, struck dumb. Anthony leans back and kicks his feet onto the desk. “So brother, are you in love?” Colin meets his gaze with wide eyes and Anthony’s feet drop from the desk at the sheer panic staring back at him. “Colin?”

“Eloise is going to kill me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My phone is on ten percent and I'm hotspotting so it's not proofread I'm sorry ahhhhhhhhhhh.

He approaches her through the crowd, making his way to where she is perched at the throngs sidelines, as so many nights before. But now he has a name for this pull, for the way his eyes scan for red hair and his feet orient in her direction. She smiles at him and Colin feels his heart thud against the parchment tucked securely in his breast pocket. 

* * *

Colin feels betrayed by his own affectation. The suaveness, the effortless charm that had draped him these past decades had suddenly dispersed. Tonight of all nights, he was without poise. He stood distracted by the buffet, and on occasion when pressured to dance managed to tread toes and drop steps, and when Anthony handed him a stiff drink with a vaguely comforting hand on the shoulder Colin gulped the liquid til it burned the back of his throat. Still his eyes barely strayed from her.

* * *

The party was but a thin lingering of individuals when she slipped into his carriage. As arranged, the driver took off within moments, providing them the privacy Colin had so long hoped for, the moments solitude he had spent the whole night chasing. Penelope’s face was drawn and severe, concern painted clear across her features, “What has happened?” His mouth drops open to explain, but he flounders for the words. For had he not wrapped his hand around her wrist not an hour ago and stated he needed a private word with her. Had he not responded to her query of ‘ _Is everything alright Colin?’_ with _‘I do not yet know.’_. “Colin, is someone hurt?”  
“No.” The answer comes from him easily, as nothing tonight yet has. Penelope lets out a relieved exhale and relaxes slightly into her seat. And as he cannot find the words, and is acutely aware of this small window of time that is securely their own, Colin slips his hand into his breast pocket and fingers the parchment. His hand hovers between them, letter in his outstretched grip, and Penelope falters, moving to take it with hesitance only when he manages a small “Please”.

She unfolds the page with a quick glance in his direction, and he follows her face as she reads through the words that follow.

* * *

‘ _My dearest, Pen,_

_I write this note in fear of interruption, in fear of inevitably saying the wrong thing, or more specifically not finding voice to the right thing. Of late my words have escaped ill-order in your presence and this I do not wish to mistake._

_There is much I wish to tell you - of sunrises and piers and the agony of denied dances - but above all I realise there is something I must first confess. You see, I have been a most cowardly fool. For years, far more than I dare count, I have been blind to the truth, have turned away from it with a fear which my late father would perceive in shame. The fact of the matter is that you, Pen, are the north star in my travels, the siren home I always heed._

_Though the shores of Greece and Italy were far from here, I carried you with me, through unfamiliar ports and fractured conversations. You were there, in the colours spilling against the ocean and the lick of a fiddle in the crowded taverns. You were there when I closed my eyes and recognised myself to have abandoned London perhaps when you most needed a friend. There is regret, for this past year and the wounds I have unintended inflicted, for the years prior when I have failed to acknowledge this singular truth -_

_That I love you. Assuredly, fervently,_ _loudly_ _. My heart, body and mind are steadfast yours, if you will have them._

_I am but a third son of a loud chaotic family, I have little to offer. But to say that you have always been, and will forever be, the moment the sun cracks the horizon, the bright light heralding in what is to come, the reminder that darkness is fleeting. I am yours. I tie my future to your happiness. Would you have me, I should devote my life to ensuring your comfort, your joy._

_So what say you, Pen? Could you ever fathom to accept a fool such as I?_

_My love, unflinchingly yours,_

_Colin_.’

* * *

The carriage is stuffed with silence. He can vaguely hear the thud of horseshoes against cobblestones, in some distant corner recognise the sway of the cart in the nights wind. But his gaze is locked firmly on Penelope, on her eyes lingering at the pages end. He shifts forward in his seat, nerves betrayed clear in his voice as he queries anxiously, “Pen?”. Her gaze darts to meet his and there is a furrow between her brows he wishes to soothe away, a half formed question on her lips.  
“I… Wha…” her gaze dips back to the parchment and she stares at it uncomprehendingly. “What is this?”

His fingers slip forward between them, tracing against the knuckles of her hand. When her blue eyes meet his he recalls a lifetime spent in her gaze and the words tumble from his tongue in a quiet divulgence, “A confession, long overdue.” He lifts her hand from the page, bringing it into the space between them as if in prayer. She watches transfixed as Colin flicks his bright gaze to hers before slowly pressing his lips against her palm. She can feel his kiss - warm and certain - through the lace of her glove and Penelope’s heart pangs in her chest. 

When he pulls back from her palm there is something new in his gaze, something she has seen but snippets of in these past weeks, a hunger she has yet to name. He does not let go her hand, in fact brings his other up to cradle it gently. Her voice is shaky in the stifled hush of the carriage, “I do not understand.”  
“Pen, I would want for nothing if you might accept my hand.”  
Ringlets of her hair bounce around her as Penelope shakes her head, “But, no, you… I am as Eloise, Hyacinth… it is but a childish infatuation…” She watches him recoil as if hit, follows his Adams apple as he swallows deeply and withdraws his hands from the warm perch around her own.  
“You do not return my affections. Forgive me the bold-”  
“No.” Panic dashes across his features and Penelope rushes to correct herself, “I mean to say, it is not that.”

Something akin to hope shoots through him, hot and dangerous. A spark of possibility he had scarcely allowed himself entertain before. His hand reaches for her again, landing softly on her knee and rubbing gentle circles against the fabric he finds there. A pink flush fills Penelope’s neck at the liberty, tinges her cheeks. When Colin’s voice rumbles between them it is a timbre deeper, “It is not?” Penelope looks up at him and Colin feels himself moving, drops to the floor between them to kneel beside her with pleading eyes, “Do you mean to say… Should I take that to mean…” he sucks in a steadying breath, "Are these sentiments… reciprocated?” Her leg is pressing slightly against the rise and fall of his chest, his hand now an urgent pressure on her thigh. She is struck breathless by the grip of his fingers, the closeness of his form.  
Her voice is a timid whisper, “Is this not an unrequited fantasy?”  
His a desperate supplication, “Pray tell me it is not.”

Long fingers move from her leg to trace around the apple of her cheek, following the curve of her hairline and dipping to drag a thumb along her bottom lip in a whisper of a caress. Penelope’s eyes slip closed at the sensation and she hears the quiet groan that slips from Colin’s parted mouth. Despite the frazzled energy and shot nerves that had surrounded this evening, it had been carefully arranged. The driver had been instructed to take the longest route home which is how Colin knows they have time when he implores, “Might I kiss you, Pen?” 

Her eyes pop open, wide with shock and a sheen of something Colin can’t quite place. She draws her lip between her teeth and Colin feels the flood of heat this small action incites within him. And then she nods, a small certain movement which has Colin reaching up to close the space between them. 

The kiss is soft, warm. Penelope gasps against his lips and Colin lets his fingers dip further into the tendrils of her hair. He pulls away only to move back in, drawing her to him as he places a series of kisses, some wet and insistent, some tender and lingering - a mess of emotions and wants. Penelope’s hand has found his cravat and her fingers pull him closer, heart pounding relentlessly against her ribs. 

They seperate, giddy and gasping for air in the thin space between them. Colin’s forehead rests against hers and he moves slightly to press their noses together in a tender nuzzle. His voice is somewhat recked as he groans “You are more divine than I imagined.” Penelope lets out a sound that is half laugh half disbelief.  
“You had conceived of this?” Colin’s eyes are dark and probing and Penelope feels herself almost cross-eyed from the effort to look at them so close to her own face.  
“This and more.” Penelope flushes an even brighter hue but does not look unpleased, so Colin continues - “It is improper to say, but Pen, you must know… you and you alone have invaded my dreams.”  
It is a small squeak, her eyes wide and awed, “Me?” But where she is unsure, Colin is wholly certain. A single word, rough around the edges as it breaks between them,  
“Yes.” 

He reclaims her lips, falling deeper into the space between her knees. The carriage rocks along the rough path but his hand on her cheek keeps them steady. Colin tries in vein to pull back, muttering his reserves against her lips even as he sinks back against them, “You are a lady. I should- I should not-“ Her fingers land on his cheek and he makes a guttural sound deep in his throat as his own palm traces down her back, “But I cannot-“ Between kisses he utters the two words with no fanfare - “Marry me.”

Penelope rips backwards, hand hovering an inch from his cheek. He looks quite the site - charming Colin Bridgerton with his hair mussed and face beet red, eyes blown wide, lips parted in uncertainty. He perches on his knees where he had landed earlier, braced between her legs even as he leans back in an attempt to catch her eye. She notices herself shaking. And for once this is not a story, she is not thinking of the highlights for tomorrows paper or imagining the scene through prose. Penelope does not need put words to make this moment a beautiful vignette, it is poetry in and of itself. 

But there is so much between them, around them. There was a time not too long ago Colin had sworn to tether his future to Marina, had believed himself in love. And mere weeks ago, another Bridgerton brother offering her his name in pity. All these years of unrequited attachment, all these years unseen. Penelope’s hands move to clasp in her lap and her gaze juts sharply to them, away from the undecipherable look in his eyes, the floating eyebrows and searching gaze that have her chest seizing uncomfortably. He sees the rejection before she speaks it, sees the words on her tongue before even her lips part, ‘ _You are not obliged-‘_. 

Colin’s hand reaches for her knee again, and her name is but a frantic plea racing into the yawning space between them. “Pen, please.” His face is drawn wide in anguish, a frantic yearning painted clear across his skin. “I am a fool, I should have known that very first day, from that very moment you knocked me clean off my horse, how did I not recognise fate, but I love you, Pen. I love you, in ways I had scarcely remembered possible, in ways that dim the sonnets in comparison. Penelope, I am yours. I will wait. I will court you if you will permit - daffodils and rings and sneaking novels behind your mothers back, anything. Just… just do not say no. Please.”

She stares at him, stunned. There is desperation flowing through his veins as he lurches forward, his hand running shakily against her jaw, voice halfway to a whisper against her ear, “Please. Let me show you what I’ve dreamed.”

Penelope’s eyes flutter closed and when they open he is right there - the boy she has loved for years, the boy she would destroy her own name to protect.. And he is no longer turning away. He looks at her and she can see the future, whole volumes of stories to come in the bright sheen of his eyes. 

Penelope’s lip lifts in a nervous half-smile, “Only if you’ll allow the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I really hope it was worth the wait! Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> There is at least an epilogue coming in time, because again there is a specific scene I want with Benedict so I'm gonna be writing that into existence.

**Author's Note:**

> “Maybe we are stars apart from each other, that there's an invisible line connecting us. I'd like to think we are together in one constellation”  
> ― Nicola An, Soul Song: Poetry and Prose of Awakening to Divine Love


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